


How Deep the Bullet Lies

by arochilton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blind!Chilton y'all, Hospital drabble basically, having too much with short metas to help me get back into writing my favorite character in fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochilton/pseuds/arochilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What has he lost?<br/>The skin of his cheek, the vision in his left eye, and most severely in his mind, his ego.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Deep the Bullet Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic as soon as the season 3 Chilton stills were released and the blind theory came into play. However, upon witnessing the Aperitivo promo tonight, I figured that now is the time to post this bit of drabble.

Darkness subsides and the world is fire. Light dances in the air and bounces off the walls, creating a sensation of burning energy spreading throughout Frederick Chilton’s head. His breathing comes in shallow gasps, his lungs trying in vain to pump fresh air to his body. He sits up wildly. The monitors next to him beep in a symphony of technological music that echoes in his ears to the pace of his heartbeat. His mind is racing, attempting to come to a clear conclusion about the consequences and severity of this situation. Frederick blinks rapidly, attempting to force his eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lights surrounding the bed he is laid out in. 

Painstakingly, Frederick searches his brain for memories of how he came to be in this position. He remembers the tight grip of silver handcuffs around his wrists, restraining him in a way that made him feel restricted and powerless: two feelings he despises above all else. He can hear his own voice, harsh yet softly enunciated, speaking to Alana Bloom, trying (and failing) to force her to see reason. However, the very last thing he remembers is the image of Jack Crawford’s body moving behind the glass, attempting to pry something from Miriam Lass’s hand. Frederick had not had time to register was was happening outside, because his world went dark at that moment and now he is awake with a throbbing in his head and a pull somewhere in his skull. 

It is not until he lets himself relax that he realizes something is wrong. It takes a second to clarify, but then he is sure: he is seeing the world through half vision. Slowly, the man runs a hand up the left side of his face, taking care to brush lightly against the soft white bandage on his cheek. His mouth involuntarily drops open as he runs a hand over his eye, which is also covered with a long bandage that circles his head. Frederick swallows hard, realizing the severity of his situation.

Just then, his head jerks upward as he hears the _tap-tap_ of shoes hit the floor outside his room. There is a soft knock on his door, and then a doctor steps in to the room. Frederick resists his usual urge to turn up his head. Doctors disgust him. They are nothing but a reminder of his past failure, and if there is one thing that Frederick Chilton cannot stand above all else, it is being reminded that he is not as invincible as he presents himself to be. However, he realizes now that there is nothing he can do but listen to whatever the doctor has to say.  

“Hello, Frederick,” the doctor starts. The man is older, probably in his late sixties, with gray hair sitting back on a receding hairline. Frederick thinks he remembers him as the ER doctor he met with after the vivisection, but he does not want to be reminded of that encounter. The doctor reminds Frederick of the snotty professors in medical school,but his eyes are kind as he peers at Frederick. “I’m glad to see that you’re awake.”

Frederick gives a noncommittal hum in response, reaching up to scratch his sharp nose, taking care to notice the luminous hospital band wrapped around his wrist. _Chilton, F. Room 312. Further surgery scheduled for 4/28/14,_ it reads.

“We were beginning to worry,” the doctor continues. “You’ve been out for over two weeks. But we’ve come to learn that you’re quite the fighter, haven’t we?” He gives Frederick a playful tap on the shoulder. Frederick glares. Registering this reaction, the doctor takes a step back. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Spare me the cliche formalities,” Frederick snorts. His voice is ragged and cracked from lack of use. The words sting his throat as he speaks them.

The doctor dips his head in lieu of an apology. “Well, you survived a gunshot to the head with minimal damage to your brain, which is not a common feat. We are still unsure how a one-armed trainee who had not fired a gun in over two years was able to hit her target, but you are extremely lucky that the bullet did not hit two inches higher. We were able to salvage your shattered cheekbone, thankfully.”

Even a pitiful and failed surgeon like Frederick knew the anatomy of the head. He had not spent two years in medical school to receive a lecture on how impossible and lucky his survival is. As the doctor speaks, he tunes in and out, wondering if the FBI has cleaned his house yet or if it will still stink of blood upon his return.

“So now the question is if you want to go ahead with ocular prothesis or not,” the doctor is saying. Frederick snaps to reality upon hearing that phrase, staring at him with a one-eyed glare.

“Excuse me?”

“We can give you a fake eye. It requires further surgery, of course, meaning that you will be in recovery for a bit longer. I’m sure you are aware, however, that you will remain blind in that eye for the rest of your life.”

The blood is pounding in Frederick Chilton’s ears. In some ways, he had known from the moment he woke up that this was the truth of the situation, but hearing the doctor say it out loud forces him to understand it.

“It’s that or you wear an eyepatch or something of the sort over the eye,” the doctor tells him. 

“No, no,” Frederick nods slowly. If there is anything he refuses to do, it is to hide his survival. Had that not been the point of using his cane long after his body required its assistance to walk?He cannot envision leading his life while hiding behind an eyepatch that is quite truly the opposite of a trophy immortalizing his survival. “Ocular prothesis. Alright.”

_What else have I to lose?_

**

A month later, Dr. Frederick Chilton is finally home, examining himself in the mirror of his lavish bathroom for the first time. He leans over the counter, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing the top of the granite. He tilts his head to different angles, appreciating his narrow features the same way he always had. The scar is not as bad as it could be, which Frederick is a bit disappointed in to be honest. The doctors did an excellent job at making it look as though Frederick has merely survived an extensive fist fight, not a gunshot to the head. However, it is menacing enough. Frederick reaches up to touch it, fingers brushing over the scruff that has grown back during his time in the hospital. The scar twinges at his touch, and he relishes in its presence on his cheek. 

Frederick blinks a few times. Though both his eyelids are open, no light nor movement can stimulate the void that is the would-be vision of his left eye. Black oblivion has become part of his life. While his one good eye takes in a fair amount, he is incapable of perceiving the world the way the rest of humanity can.  

Of course, on the exterior, it is anything but black. His fake eye hosts a translucent white-gray cornea, the pupil staring blindly at its surroundings. The skin around his eye droops, giving just a glimpse more at his eyeball than would be considered normal. If he is being truthful, he is quite pleased with how the eye looks. It is menacing, terrifying even. It makes him look as though he is not a person to cross, which is exactly how he has been attempting to present himself his entire life.

A thin smile spreads across Frederick Chilton’s face. As his mouth widens, his cheek screams in protest, the inside of his mouth burning as the abhorrent flesh stretches to make room for Frederick’s smirk. The pain only makes him break into a wide grin, eyes flashing, one white and one pale green, atop a perfect set of white teeth.

He is alive, and nobody will ever forget that how much he has been through as he resumes his place in the world, this time with only one thing on his agenda: to catch Hannibal Lecter.

 

 


End file.
